Tired Sex Poem by Chana Bloch

Tired Sex



We're trying to strike a match in a matchbook
that has lain all winter under the woodpile:
damp sulphur
on sodden cardboard.
I catch myself yawning. Through the window
I watch that sparrow the cat
keeps batting around.

Like turning the pages of a book the teacher assigned —

You ought to read it, she said.
It's great literature.

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Chana Bloch

Chana Bloch

California / United States
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